


Ritual Magick for Beginners

by sequence_fairy



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Also maybe don't mess around with blood rituals, Demon Shane Madej, Don't get your protection spells from cheesy witchcraft websites friends, Just some advice from your local fic writer, M/M, Ritual magic gone a bit awry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 09:32:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19059952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequence_fairy/pseuds/sequence_fairy
Summary: When Ryan comes back, carrying the little tub of rich red liquid, Shane balks visibly.“What do you have there, Ry-guy?”“The blood of my enemies,” Ryan says, deadpan.“How can you, I’m still here, aren’t I?”Or: Ryan learns the hard way that you shouldn't get your protection spells from myfirstspellbook.com.





	Ritual Magick for Beginners

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abovetheruins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/gifts).



> For a friend, who, when I asked for prompts for 1000 word flashfic on tumblr, gave me "That's gonna leave a mark." I did not expect to write nearly 2.5k of this, nor did I expect to hit my demon!shane bingo square so early. 
> 
> Heads up for mildly spooky, badly done ritual magick, which is something you should not do badly, for there are consequences.

“That’s gonna leave a mark,” Shane says.

Ryan grimaces at the floor. “That’s kind of the point.”

“Don’t blame me if you don’t get your deposit back,” Shane says, but he doesn’t make a move to stop Ryan. Which is whatever, because Ryan wouldn’t have stopped regardless. He notices that Shane is still holding on to the bundle of smoking herbs too, even though he had complained about the smell of them earlier. Even now, Shane’s mouth curls every time the smoke wafts back in his direction. Ryan ignores him, and focuses on bisecting the circle perfectly.

Scoring hardwood is hard with a kitchen knife, but that’s what he had handy. And anyway, who cares if he doesn’t get his deposit back, it’s not like Shane’s moving in here, or anything. Just Ryan and his irrational fear of the things that go bump in the night. He’s surprised, truthfully, that Shane hadn’t done much more than sigh loudly when Ryan had insisted he hold the bundle of things, and had only raised a token protest when Ryan had pulled up the rug at the doorway into his new apartment to expose the bare floor.

The sigil isn’t complicated, which is one of the reasons Ryan picked it, but it does have to be drawn pretty perfectly, and it took him longer than he had originally planned to get the circle drawn exactly the way he wanted. The sharpie he’d used is forgotten beside him on the floor, and Shane’s still leaning against the wall, where he’s been since he came back from walking the perimeter of Ryan’s new apartment, paying special attention to the four cardinal corners.

Shane had done what Ryan had asked, and he’s been quiet until Ryan started actually carving into the wood. Ryan thinks Shane’s probably going to really hate it when he gets the lamb’s blood out of the kitchen, where it’s been slowly warming up to room temperature, but Shane can go fuck himself. Ryan refuses to be followed home by something from one of their shoots, and if Shane doesn’t believe, well, whatever, the ghosts can have him, for all Ryan cares.

Ryan ignores the twinge of guilt in his chest, and focuses on pulling the knife smoothly along an intricate symbol near to the edge of the circle. He finishes, and moves on to the next one, carefully following the lines he drew out with sharpie earlier. One more to go. Shane shifts against the wall, lifting his hand to push his glasses back up on his nose.

As Ryan finishes the last line of the final symbol, something thrums in the air. All the hair on Ryan’s arms stands on end, and his ears pop. He looks up at Shane, who is staring back at Ryan, wide-eyed.

“Well,” Ryan says, “that was weird.”

“Whatever,” Shane says, shrugging, “electrical discharge, or something.”

It’s unconvincing, but Ryan lets it slide. He has to finish the ritual. He gets to his feet. Shane pushes himself off the wall, but Ryan waves him off. “Stay there,” he says, “I have to get something from the kitchen.”

When Ryan comes back, carrying the little tub of rich red liquid, Shane balks visibly.

“What do you have there, Ry-guy?”

“The blood of my enemies,” Ryan says, deadpan.

“How can you, I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“It’s lamb’s blood,” Ryan says, not wanting to get drawn into a back and forth he hasn’t a hope of winning. Ryan kneels beside his circle, and sets the tub down next to him, and lays the little artist’s brush he’d picked up earlier that day beside that. “Hand me that,” he says, reaching for Shane, waggling his fingers. “I’m supposed to use the smoke to cleanse the blood.”

“That sounds ridiculous,” Shane says, but he hands Ryan the bag anyway. Their fingers brush as Ryan takes it, and the air goes thick around them. It fades as soon as Ryan pulls away, and he doesn’t mention it to Shane. Shane says nothing either. Ryan waves the smoking bundle over top of the tub. The smoke stings when it gets in Ryan’s eyes and the smell is still not great. His neighbours probably think he’s smoking some trash weed.

Once he’s satisfied that the blood is suitably cleansed, he hands the bundle back to Shane. “Put that in the sink, will you? I don’t want to burn the place down.”

Shane goes without a word, and Ryan picks up the paintbrush.

As soon as he sets the first drop of blood into the sigil, something electric rockets up his arm. He drops the brush and blood splotches against the floor. Ryan’s heart trips in his chest, but he grits his teeth and picks the brush back up. This time, when he touches the end of the brush down against the sigil, he’s ready for the shock. It reverberates through him, seeming to settle deep into his bones.

By the time he’s nearly done, Ryan’s sweating and shaking, his whole body pulled taut. Shane’s still not back from the kitchen. It seems like it’s been an age since Ryan sent him to put the herbs into the sink, why is it taking him so long to do something so simple. Ryan presses on, only a few more lines to go. Ryan refills his paintbrush, and paints along the last scored line, bringing the circle to a close.

It’s like thunder without sound, but from inside his head. Ryan lurches forward, ducking instinctively. He hears someone shout, then the world twists and and everything goes black.

When Ryan comes to, he’s lying on his back on the floor, Shane leaning close to his face, one hand on Ryan’s chest and his phone pressed against his ear.

“He’s coming around,” Shane says to whoever’s on the other end of the phone, “hang on.” Shane puts his phone down, and shifts so he can touch Ryan’s face. “Welcome back, buddy,” Shane says, and there’s naked relief in his tone.

“What–what happened?” Ryan croaks. Shane’s hand is a warm weight on Ryan’s chest.

“You hit your head or something, did you trip? I swear I was only gone for a minute, and when I came back you were sacked out on the floor.”

“I didn’t trip, I was sitting on the floor, and you were gone forever–I had time to paint the whole–shit, Shane, did I do it wrong?” Fear shivers up Ryan’s spine and he’s heaving himself to sitting so fast that he nearly knocks Shane over.

“Ryan–Ryan, hang on a minute.” Shane says, but Ryan’s already moving. He doesn’t trust himself to stand because obviously he was just unconscious, he’s not stupid, so he crawls back over to the door, from where Shane had pulled him away. The sigil is finished, blood dried to tacky in the lines. Ryan puts his hand out to touch, but Shane’s there before he can, and he smacks Ryan’s hand away.

“Don’t,” Shane says, and there’s a note of real warning in his friend’s voice, so much so that Ryan turns to look at Shane. “You really don’t want to do that,” Shane says, and blinks. Ryan’s breath goes out of him in a ragged sound, and he scrambles to get away, pushing himself back until he fetches up against the wall and can go no further.

“Sh-Shane,” Ryan says, lifting one shaking hand. “You–you’re–”

“Next time you wanna go for a protection sigil, maybe pick a more reputable website than ‘myfirstspellbook.com’,” Shane snarks. “You can be so dumb sometimes, Ryan, for such a smart guy.”

Ryan’s still not processing. His brain is entirely offline. He can’t make any sense of what’s happening. The thing in front of him sounds like Shane, acts like Shane, but the eyes. Ryan gulps, pressing himself harder against the wall as Shane moves closer.

“I’m not gonna hurt you, buddy,” Shane says. “If it makes you feel any better, this is not how I wanted you to find out.”

“ _Demon_ –” Ryan gets out, high-pitched and wheezing.

“Yes, good work,” Shane says, dismissive, “now will you please let me look at you, I’m afraid you pulled something through when you closed the circle, and I want to make sure it hasn’t latched on to your, quite frankly, delicious little soul.” Shane leans in closer and Ryan squeaks, closing his eyes tight against the fathomless black of Shane’s.

He’s going to die, he’s going to die, he’s going to die. Ryan’s heart is galloping in his chest, and he can’t breathe. An anvil sits on his ribs, squeezing all the air out and he can’t get anymore in.

“Hey,” Shane says, “Ryan. You gotta breathe, dude. You need to, or you’re gonna die for real and I really can’t fix that.”

It’s such a Shane thing to say that Ryan can’t help himself. He pulls in one shaky breath and then another and then he opens his eyes.

Shane grins. “There you are,” he says, and then presses his palm flat against Ryan’s chest. Warmth bleeds out from the place of contact, and Shane hums. After a long moment, Shane pulls back, lifting his hand from Ryan’s shirt. “You’re all good,” Shane says, shaking out his hand.  

“What the fuck, Shane?”

“There’s more than heaven and earth, Horatio,” Shane says, and blinks. When they open, his eyes are soft brown again.

“What the _fuck_ , Shane,” Ryan repeats. He’s completely at a loss. Shane’s mouth twists, then reaches up to rub at his eyes under his glasses.

“Like I said, this was not the plan, but then you had to go and find some kind of summoning ritual masquerading as a protection sigil, and it shouldn’t have worked anyway, ‘cause you’re supposed to be as mortal as they come, but maybe someone made a mistake somewhere in the paperwork, because shit, you very nearly managed to open a portal to somewhere you really don’t wanna go.”

“I–what?”

“Look, I know you have questions. I promise I’ll answer them, but later. I need to get rid of this and you need to go lie down. That was serious spellwork and you’ll be a zombie if you don’t have a nap.”

“A zombie!?”

“Figure of speech, Ryan. Go lie down. I’ll take care of this.” Shane says, and then he turns to the carving on Ryan’s floor, and Ryan knows he’s being dismissed.

Questions trip over each other in his mouth, but he can’t make any of them into any kind of sensible thing, so instead of arguing, he gets up, and staggers to the couch. Exhaustion sweeps over him like a wave, and Ryan gives in.

When he wakes up, someone is puttering in his kitchen, and he can smell freshly brewed coffee. Ryan groans himself up to sitting, because sleeping on his couch is never good for his back, and Shane comes around the corner, carrying a mug of coffee.

“Good morning,” he says.

Ryan yawns. “What time’s it?”

“Nearly eight.” Shane brings his mug up to his face, taking a sip.

“In the morning!? Holy shit! We’re gonna be late for work! Fuck, Shane, why didn’t you wake me up sooner? And you’re still here–” Ryan trails off suddenly, as everything comes back.

Shane’s there in a moment, sinking down to sit on Ryan’s coffee table. “Eight at night, you slept for like three hours, tops, and yes, I’m still here.”

“Did–all that from before–did that–?”

“One hundred percent, absolutely, that did all happen,” Shane says, bright and easy, but there’s something careful in the way he’s holding himself. There’s a fragility to him now, one that Ryan’s never seen before.

“You’re–” Ryan’s voice dies in his throat.

Shane sets his mug down beside him and rubs at the back of his neck. “Yeah, so, about that,” he says, shoulders hunching forward, as if to make himself smaller. Ryan hates it. Shane exhales on a long sigh, and then looks up at Ryan again, eyes once more that liquid black, deeper than pitch and devoid of emotion.”Certified denizen of Hell, that’s me.”

“Are you–is Shane still–”

“I _am_ Shane, thank you. I’ve always been Shane. Well,” Shane pauses, “at least this time. I’ve been topside before, but not for centuries. Nasty lady banished me for scaring her cat, it took a long time for me to crawl back out of the teeming masses.” Shane smiles, all teeth. Ryan shivers, entirely involuntary. 

The black bleeds out of Shane’s eyes gradually, until they’re the usual, human, brown again.  

“Okay,” Ryan says, “okay.” He scrubs a hand down his face, and something occurs to him as he does it. Well, several things, in quick succession. 1) Shane’s not of this earth, is in fact some kind of demonic entity, which, good job, Ryan, you’ve been making a ghost hunting show with an actual supernatural being and you never cottoned on, some detective you are, and 2) if Shane’s a–a _demon_ , that means– “how can you not believe in ghosts?”

Shane splutters. “ _That’s_ what you want to know? Not ‘Shane, what happens when we die?’ or ‘Shane, how does possession work?’ or ‘Shane, what really _was_ in the Sallie House? You want to know how come I don’t believe in ghosts?” Shane laughs, “you’re incredible, Ryan Bergara.”

Ryan’s eyes narrow. “Answer the question,” he says.

Shane capitulates, putting his hands up in surrender between them. “Okay, you got me. I lied.”

“Ghosts are real? I _knew_ it! I knew it.”

“Of course they’re real, you nerd,” Shane says, “I’m real aren’t I?”

“Are you?” Ryan asks, “are you sure? Or are we all just some mass hallucination brought on by poisoned bread?”

“Shut up, Ryan,” Shane says, fond. Then, “are we–?”

“It’s a lot,” Ryan says, because honesty is the best policy, in his experience, when there are big things to talk about. “But you’re still Shane, and I’m still Ryan, and I’m pretty sure we’re still the ghoul boys.”

“We’re a package deal, baby,” Shane says, and a weight lifts off his shoulders. “Wanna go get a burrito? I don’t know about you, but I’m starving.”

Ryan’s stomach rumbles. “Sure,” he says, “let’s do that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please come and chat with me about my fic on [tumblr](http://sequencefairy.tumblr.com) or on [twitter](https://twitter.com/warpspeed_chic).


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